Call To Arms Part 11

One warm, sunny day, when there was no wind and not a leaf stirred on the trees, I heard a sudden chorus of laughter. Tracking down the sound, I discovered quite a crowd leaning out of Third Mistress's back window to watch: a baby rabbit was frisking in the yard. He was much smaller than his parents had been when purchased. But already he could take off from the ground on his hind-legs and jump. The children eagerly told me that another little rabbit had peeked out of the burrow, but promptly drawn back his head. That must be his baby brother.

The little rabbit also nibbled at gra.s.s and leaves, but apparently this was not allowed by his parents, who kept s.n.a.t.c.hing them out of his mouth, yet didn't eat them themselves. The children laughed so uproariously that finally the little rabbit took fright and hopped back to the burrow. The bigger ones followed him to the mouth of the burrow. With their fore-paws they pushed him inside, then sc.r.a.ped up earth to seal up the hole.

After that the little yard was livelier, there were often people at the window watching.

But then the rabbits, both small and big, disappeared. We were having a spell of dull weather. Once more Third Mistress worried that the malevolent black cat had done for them. I told her, no. Because it was cold, of course they were keeping under cover. Once the sun came out, they were sure to come out again.

The sun came out, but still no sign of them. Then everybody forgot them.

Only Third Mistress often thought of them, as she had been in the habit of feeding them spinach. Once, going into the small yard by the back window, she suddenly spotted another hole by the corner of the wall, and when she looked again at the old hole she saw a good many faint paw-prints round the entrance. Not even the big rabbits could have made such big prints. Once again her suspicion fell on the big black cat who was so often on the wall. Thereupon she felt impelled to dig up the burrow. She finally got out a hoe and dug down. Although fearing the worst, she hoped against hope to discover the small white rabbits; but a heap of mouldy gra.s.s and rabbit-fur, probably spread there for the doe's confinement. Apart from that the place was bare, with not a trace of the snow-white little rabbit, or of his baby brother who had peeped out but not emerged from the burrow.

Anger, disappointment and grief impelled her to dig up the new burrow at the corner of the wall too. As soon as she started, out scuttled the two big rabbits. She was delighted, thinking they had moved house, but still she went on digging. When she reached the bottom, that too was strewn with gra.s.s, leaves and rabbit-fur, and on this were sleeping seven tiny rabbits, pink all over. A close look showed that they hadn't yet opened their eyes.

All became clear. Third Mistress's earlier guess had been correct. To forestall further danger, she put the litter of seven in a box, and moved it into her room. She put the doe in too, ordering her to suckle her little ones.

From that day on Third Mistress not only hated the black cat, but took a very dim view of the mother rabbit. She said, before the first two babies were killed, others must have died, because each litter was certainly more than two; but because of unequal suckling, those deprived of milk had starved. This sounded plausible, for two of the present litter of seven were very puny. So whenever Third Mistress had time, she would catch the mother rabbit and put the babies one by one on her belly to drink milk, no matter how long this took her.

My mother remarked to me that, in all her life, she had never so much as heard to so much trouble taken over raising rabbits. It deserved to be included in the Register of Eccentrics.

The rabbit family was more flourishing than ever. Everybody was happy again.

But after that I kept feeling disconsolate. In the middle of the night, sitting under the lamp, I would think of those two little lives which had been lost none knows when, unnoticed by men or spirits, leaving no trace in the history of living creatures. Not even S had barked. This brought back old memories of when I was staying in our provincial hostel. Getting up early one day I saw beneath the big locust tree some scattered pigeon feathers, obviously let fall by a hawk. In the morning the attendant came to sweep up, and nothing was left of them. Who would have known that a life had been cut off here? Another time, pa.s.sing the Xisi Archway, I saw a puppy dying, run over by a horsecart. On my return it had gone, someone had removed it, and which of the pa.s.sers-by would have known that a life had been cut off here? On summer nights, outside the window, I often heard the long drawnout drone of flies which must have been caught by a spider, but I never paid any attention, and other people did not even hear....

If it is possible to blame the Creator, then I think he really creates life too much at random, and destroys it too much at random.

A yowl"two cats are fighting outside the window again.

Xun! Are you beating cats again there?

No, they're biting each other. Why should I beat them?

My mother has always disapproved of my cruelty to cats. Now doubtless suspecting me of employing sinister tactics to avenge the little rabbits, she had questioned me. Indeed, I was the byword of the whole household for my enmity to cats. I had killed cats, and often beat them, especially during the mating season. I beat them, however, not because they are mating, but because their caterwauling stops me from sleeping. I see no need for all that yowling when they mate.

Besides, since the black cat had killed the little rabbits, I had a more righteous cause for which to fight. Mother, I felt, was really too soft-hearted. That was why I made such an evasive, almost disapproving, answer.

The Creator goes too far. I cannot but oppose him, although this may be abetting him instead. That black cat must not be allowed to lord it much longer on the low wall, I resolved. Then, involuntarily, my eye fell on a bottle of pota.s.sium cyanide tucked away in my case of books.

October 1922

* The Comedy of the Ducks

Not long after the blind Russian poet Eroshenko brought his sixstringed guitar to Beijing, he complained to me, Lonely, lonely! Like the loneliness in a desert!

This was no doubt his honest feeling, but not mine: I was an old resident. Stay long in a room filled with iris and epidendrum, and you become oblivious of their scent. I simply found the place noisy. But perhaps what I called noisy was what he called lonely.

It did seem to me though that Beijing had no spring or autumn. Old residents said that the warmth underground had shifted northward, making the climate milder. Still, in my opinion there was no spring or autumn; the end of winter merged with the start of summer; and as soon as summer ended, winter started.

One day, or rather one night, at this time when winter ended and summer began, happening to be free I called on Eroshenko. He stayed in Zhong Mi's home. By this hour the rest of the household was in bed, and the place was very quiet. Eroshenko was resting alone on his couch, his high brows slightly wrinkled under his long yellow hair as he thought of his travels in Burma, of summer nights in Burma.

On a night like this, he said, there is music all over Burma. Buildings, gra.s.s and trees, all have insects shrilling there. Those different sounds merge into a most extraordinary harmony. Now and then snakes hiss, but their hisses blend into the insect's shrilling....

He fell silent, as if eager to recapture that scent.

There was nothing I could say. I had certainly never heard miraculous music of that kind in Beijing; so no matter how patriotic I was I could put up no defence, for although blind he was not deaf.

You haven't even frogs in Beijing.... he sighed.

Frogs? We do! This sigh of his emboldened me to protest, In summer, after the big rains, you can hear no end of frogs croaking in the gutters, because there are gutters all over Beijing.

Oh....

A few days later, sure enough, I was proved right, as Eroshenko bought a dozen or so tadpoles. He put them into a miniature pool in the middle of the yard outside his window. Three feet long and two feet wide, it had been dug by Zhong Mi to serve as a lotus pool. Although no one had ever seen even half a lotus growing there, it was a most appropriate place to raise frogs.

Cl.u.s.tered tadpoles swam through the water, and Eroshenko often went over to visit them. Once, the children told him, Mr. Eroshenko, they've grown legs. Then he smiled with pleasure and said, Oh!

But raising a poolful of musicians was only one of Eroshenko's projects. A great advocate of self-sufficiency, he was all in favour of women keeping livestock and of men tilling the land. So whenever he met a good friend, he would advise him to go plant cabbages in his yard; and many a time he urged Mrs. Zhong Mi to keep bees, poultry, pigs, cows and camels. Subsequently, sure enough, many chicks appeared in the Zhong Mi household and flapped all over the yard, pecking it bare of the tender leaves on the ground. This was probably the outcome of his advice.

After that, the countryman selling chicks often called, and each time they bought a few, because chicks are p.r.o.ne to forage for themselves and fall ill"they are seldom very long-lived. One of them, moreover, became the central figure in The Tragedy of the Chicks, the only story Eroshenko wrote in Beijing. One morning, unexpectedly, the countryman brought along some cheeping ducklings, but Mrs. Zhong Mi said she did not want them. Eroshenko hurried out too. They put a duckling in his hands, and it cheeped as he held it. He thought the little creature so lovable, he felt he had to buy it. He bought four in all, for eighty cash apiece.

And those ducklings were really lovable, covered with golden down. Set on the ground they waddled about, calling to each other and always keeping together. Everybody praised them and said they must buy some loaches the next day to feed them. Eroshenko said, You must let me pay for it.

Then he went off to a cla.s.s, and the others dispersed. When presently Mrs. Zhong Mi took out some left-over rice for the ducklings, she heard a distant splashing and, running over to look, saw the four of them having a bath in the lotus pool. They were turning somersaults too and eating something. By the time she shooed them ash.o.r.e, the water in the pool was muddy. When eventually the mud settled, all that could be seen were a few thin lotus roots. Not a single tadpole that had grown legs was left.

They've gone, Mr. Eroshenko, the baby frogs. The smallest child made haste to announce this as soon as he came back that evening.

Eh? The frogs?

Mrs. Zhong Mi came out too, to report how the ducklings had eaten all the tadpoles.

Well, well! he said.

By the time the ducklings shed their down, Eroshenko had suddenly become so homesick for Mother Russia that he hastily set off for Chita.

By the time frogs were croaking all around, the ducklings had grown into ducks, two white, two speckled, and they no longer cheeped but had started quacking. The lotus pool was too small for them to sport in; but luckily Zhong Mi's compound is so low-lying that each time it rained in summer it filled with water. Then they swam, dabbled in the water, flapped their wings and quacked joyfully.

Now the end of summer has once more merged with the start of winter, and still there is no news of Eroshenko. There is no knowing where he is.

Only four ducks are left, still quacking in the desert.

October 1922

* Village Opera

In the past twenty years only twice have I been to see Chinese opera. During the first ten years I saw none, lacking both the wish and the opportunity. The two occasions on which I went were in the last ten years, but each time I left without seeing anything in it.

The first time was in 1912 when I was new to Beijing. A friend told me Beijing had the best opera and that seeing it was an experience not to be missed. I thought it might be interesting to see an opera, especially in Beijing, and hurried in high spirits to some theatre, the name of which escapes me. The performance had already started. Even outside I could hear the beat of the drums. As we squeezed in, gaudy colours flashed into view, then I saw many heads in the auditorium; but when I collected myself to look around there were still a few empty seats in the middle. As I squeezed my way in to sit down, someone addressed me. Already there was such a buzzing in my ears that I had to listen hard to catch what he was saying" Sorry, these seats are taken!

We withdrew to the back, but then a man with a glossy queue led us to one side and indicated an unoccupied place. This was a bench only a quarter the width of my thighs, but with legs two-thirds longer than mine. To begin with I hadn't the courage to get up there. Then, being reminded of some instrument of torture, with an involuntary shudder I fled.

I had gone some way when suddenly I heard my friend's voice asking, Well, what's the matter? Looking over my shoulder I saw he had followed me out. Why are you marching along without a word? he inquired in great surprise.

I'm sorry, I told him. There's such a dingdong skirling in my ears, I didn't hear you.

Whenever I thought back to this it struck me as most strange and I supposed that the opera had been a very poor one"or else a theatre was no place for me.

I forget in what year I made the second venture, but funds were being raised for flood victims in Hubei and Tan Xinpei was still alive. By paying two dollars for a ticket, you contributed money and could go to the Number One Theatre to see an opera with a cast made up for the most part of famous actors, one being Tan Xinpei simply had to be seen. At that, I forgot the disastrous dingdong skirling of a few years before and went to the theatre"probably half because that precious ticket had cost so much that I would feel uncomfortable unless I used it. I learned that Tan Xinpei made his appearance late in the evening, and the Number One Theatre was a modern one where you did not have to fight for your seat. That rea.s.sured me, and I waited till nine o'clock before setting out. To my surprise, just as before, it was full. There was hardly any standing-room and I had to squeeze into the crowd at the rear to watch an actor singing and old woman's part. He had a paper spill burning at each corner of his mouth and there was devil-soldier beside him. After racking my brains I guessed that this might be Maudgalyayana's mother, because the next to come on was a monk. Not recognizing the actor, I asked a fat gentleman squeezed in on my left who he was. Gong Yunfu! he said, throwing me a withering sidelong glance. My face burned with shame over my ignorant blunder, and I mentally resolved at all costs to ask no more questions. Then I watched a heroine and her maid sing, next an old man and some other characters I could not identify. After that, I watched a whole group fight a free-for-all, and after that two or three people fighting together"from after nine till ten, from ten till eleven, from eleven till eleven-thirty, from eleven-thirty till twelve"but still there was no sign of Tan Xinpei.

Never in my life have I waited so patiently for anything. But the wheezes of the fat gentleman next to me, the dingdong skirling, gonging and drumming on the stage, the whirling of gaudy colours, combined with the lateness of the hour, suddenly made me realize that this was no place for me. Mechanically turning round, I tried with might and main to shove my way out and felt the place behind me fill up at once"no doubt the elastic fat gentleman had expanded his right side into the s.p.a.ce I vacated. With my retreat cut off, naturally there was nothing to do but push and push till at last I was out of the door. Apart from the rickshaws waiting for playgoers, there were practically no pedestrians in the street; but there were still a dozen or so people by the gate looking up at the programme, and another group not looking at anything who must, I thought, be waiting to watch the women come out after the show ended. And still no sign of Tan Xinpei....

But the night air was so crisp, it really seeped into my heart. This seemed to be the first time I had known such good air in Beijing.

I said goodbye to Chinese opera that night, never thinking about it again, and if by any chance I pa.s.sed a theatre it meant nothing to me for in spirit we were long since poles apart.

A few days ago, however, I happened to read a j.a.panese book"unfortunately I have forgotten the t.i.tle and author, but it was about Chinese opera. One chapter made the point that Chinese opera is so full of gongs and cymbals, shouting and leaping, that it makes the spectators' heads swim and is quite unsuited for a theatre; if performed in the open and watched from a distance, it has its charm. I felt that this put into words what had remained unformulated in my mind, because as a matter of fact I clearly remembered seeing a really good opera in the country and it was under its influence, perhaps, that after coming to Beijing I went twice to the theatre. It is a pity that, somehow or other, the name of that book escapes me.

As to when I saw that good opera, it was really long, long ago, when I could not have been much more than eleven or twelve. It was the custom in Luzhen where we lived for married women not yet in charge of the household to go back to their parents' home for the summer. Although my father's mother was then still quite strong, my mother had quite a few domestic duties which made it impossible for her to spend many days at her old home during the summer. All she could spare was a few days after visiting the ancestral graves, and at such times I always went with her to stay in her parents' house. That was in Pingqiao Village not far from the sea, a very remote little village on a river with less than thirty households of peasants and fishermen, and just one tiny grocery. To me, however, it was heaven, for not only was I treated as a guest of honour but here I could skip reading the Book of Songs.

There were many children for me to play with. For with the arrival of a visitor from such a distance they got leave from their parents to do less work in order to play with me. In a small village, the guest of one family is virtually the guest of the whole community. We were all about the same age, but when it came to determining seniority many were at least my uncles or granduncles, since everybody in the village had the same family name and belonged to one clan. But we were all good friends, and if by some chance we fell out and I hit one of my granduncles, it never occurred to any child or grown-up in the village to call me insubordinate. Ninety-nine out of a hundred of them could neither read nor write.

We spent most of our days digging up earthworms, putting them on little hooks made of copper wire, and lying on the river bank to catch prawns. The silliest of water creatures, prawns willingly use their own pincers to push the point of the hook into their mouths; so in a few hours we could catch a big bowlful. It was the custom to give these prawns to me. Another thing we did was to graze buffaloes together. But, maybe because they are animals of a higher order, oxen and buffaloes are hostile to strangers, and they treated me with such contempt that I never dared get too close. I could only follow at a distance and stand there. At such times my small friends, no longer impressed by my ability to recite cla.s.sical poetry, would all start hooting with laughter.

What I looked forward to most was going to Zhaozhuang to see the opera. Zhaozhuang was a slightly larger village five li away. Since Pingqiao was too small to afford to put on operas, every year it chipped in towards a performance at Zhaozhuang. At the time, it never occurred to me to wonder why they should put on operas every year. Thinking back to it now, I dare say it may have been a ritual drama for the late spring festival.

The year that I was eleven or twelve, this long-awaited day came round again. But as ill luck would have it, there was no boat for hire that morning. Pingqiao Village had only one big ferry-boat, which put out in the morning and came back in the evening, and it was out of the question to use this. All the other boats were unsuitable, being too small. And the neighbouring villages, when people were sent to ask, had no boats either"they had all been hired already. My grandmother, very vexed, blamed the family for not hiring one earlier and started nagging. To console her, Mother said that our operas at Luzhen were much better than in these little villages, and as we saw several a year there was no need to go today. But I was nearly in tears from chagrin, and Mother did her best to impress on me on no account to make a scene, because it would upset my grandmother; nor must I go with other people either, or Grandmother might worry.

In a word, it had fallen through. In the afternoon, when all my friends had left and the opera had started, I imagined I could hear the sound of gongs and drums and knew they were in front of the stage buying soyabean milk to drink.

I caught no prawns that day, did not eat much either. Mother was very upset but could not think what to do. By supper time Grandmother too had finally caught on and she said I was right to be cross, they had been too remiss, and never before had guests been treated so badly. After the meal, youngsters back from the opera gathered round and gaily described it to us. I was the only one silent. They all sighed and said how sorry they were for me. Suddenly one of the brightest, Shuangxi, had an inspiration and asked, A big boat? Hasn't Eighth Granduncle's ferry-boat come back? A dozen other boys cottoned on and at once started agitating to take the boat and go with me. I cheered up. But Grandmother was nervous, thinking we were all children and undependable. And Mother said it would not be fair to ask grown-ups to stay up all night and go with us, as they all had to work the next day. While our fate hung in the balance, Shuangxi went to the root of the problem, declaring loudly, I guarantee it'll be all right! It's a big boat, Brother Xun never jumps around, and all of us can swim!

It was true. Not a boy in the dozen but could swim, and two or three of them were first-rate swimmers in the sea.

Grandmother and Mother, convinced, raised no further objections. Both smiled. We immediately rushed out.

My heart after being so heavy was suddenly light, and I felt as though floating on air. Once outside, I saw in the moonlight a ferry-boat with a white awning moored at the bridge. We all jumped aboard, Shuangxi seizing the front pole and Afa the back one, while the younger boys sat down with me in the middle and those a little older went to the stern. By the time Mother followed us out to warn Be carefull! we had already cast off. We pushed off from the bridge, floated back a few feet, then moved forward under the bridge. Two oars were set up, each manned by two boys who changed shifts every li. Chatter, laughter and shouts mingled with the lapping of water against our bow; to our right and left stretched emerald green fields of beans and wheat, as we flew forward towards Zhaozhuang.

The scent of beans, wheat and river-weeds wafted towards us through the mist, and the moonlight shone faintly through it. Distant grey hills, undulating like the backs of some leaping iron beasts, seemed to be racing past the stern of our boat; but I still felt our progress was slow. When the oarsmen had changed shifts four times, we began to make out the faint outline of Zhaozhuang and to catch the sound of singing and music. There were several lights too, which we guessed must be on the stage unless they were fishermen's lights.

The music was probably fluting. Eddying round and round and up and down, it soothed me and set me dreaming at the same time, till I felt as though I was about to drift far away with it through the night air heavy with the scent of beans, wheat and river-weeds.

As we approached the lights, they proved to be fishermen's lights and I realized it was not Zhaozhuang that I had been looking at. Directly ahead of us was a pine-wood where I had played the year before and seen a broken stone horse, fallen on its side, as well as a stone sheep couched in the gra.s.s. Once past the wood, our boat rounded a bend into a cove, and Zhaozhuang was really before us.

Our eyes were drawn to stage standing in a plot of empty ground by the river outside the village, hazy in the distant moonlight, barely distinguishable from its surroundings. It seemed that the fairyland I had seen in pictures had come alive here. The boat was moving faster now, and presently we could make out figures on the stage and a blaze of gaudy colours. The river close to the stage was black with the boat awnings of the spectators.

There's no room near the stage, let's watch from a distance, suggested Afa.

The boat had slowed down now, and soon we arrived. True enough, it was impossible to get close to the stage. We had to make fast even further away from it than the shrine opposite. But, in any case, we did not want our boat with its white awning to mix with those black ones and, besides, there was no room....

While we hastily moored, there appeared on the stage a man with a long black beard and four pennons fixed to his back. With a spear he fought a whole group of bare-armed men. Shuangxi told us this was a famous acrobat who could turn eighty-four somersaults one after the other. He had counted for himself earlier in the day.

We all crowded to the bow to watch the fighting, but the acrobat did not turn any somersaults. Only a few of the bare-armed men turned over heels a few times, then trooped off. Then a girl came out and sang in a shrill falsetto. There aren't many watching in the evening, said Shuangxi, and the acrobat's taking it easy. Who wants to show off to an empty house? That made sense to me, because by then there were not many spectators. The country folk, having work to do the next day, could not stay up all night and had gone home to bed. Standing there still were just a scattering of a few dozen idlers from Zhaozhuang and the villages around. The families of the local rich remained in the boats with black awnings, but they were not really interested in the opera. Most of them had come to the opera to eat cakes, fruit or melon-seeds. So it could really be reckoned an empty house.

As a matter of fact, I was not too keen on somersaults either. What I wanted most to see was a snake spirit swathed in white, its two hands clasping above it a wand-like snake's head, and next a leaping tiger dressed in yellow. But I waited a long time in vain. As soon as the girl left, out came a very old man acting the part of a young one. Feeling tired, I asked Guisheng to buy me some soyabean milk. He came back presently to say, There isn't any. The deaf man who sells it has gone. There was some in the daytime, I drank two bowls then. I'll get you a dipperful of water to drink.

Instead of drinking the water, I stuck it out as best I could. I cannot say what I saw, but by degrees something strange seemed to happen to the faces of the players, whose features blurred as if melting into one flattened surface. Most of the younger boys yawned, while the older ones chatted among themselves. It was only when clown in a red shirt was fastened to a pillar on the stage, and a greybeard started horsewhipping him, that we roused ourselves to watch again and laughed. I really think that was the best scene of the evening.

But then the old woman came out. This was the character I dreaded most, especially when she sat down to sing. Now I saw by everybody's disappointment that they felt just as I did. To start with, the old woman simply walked to and fro singing, then she sat on a chair in the middle of the stage. I felt most dismayed, and Shuangxi and the rest started swearing. I waited patiently till, after a long time, the old woman raised her hand. I thought she was going to stand up. But dashing my hopes she lowered her hand slowly again just as before, and went on singing. Some of the boys in the boat could not help groaning; the rest began to yawn again. Finally Shuangxi, when he could stand it no longer, said he was afraid she might go on singing till dawn and we had better leave. We all promptly agreed, becoming as eager as when we had set out. Three or four boys ran to the stern, seized the poles to punt back several yards, then headed the boat around. Cursing the old woman, they set up the oars and started back for the pine-wood.

Judging by the position of the moon we had not been watching very long, and once we left Zhaozhuang the moonlight seemed unusually bright. When we turned back to look at the lanternlit stage, it appeared just as it had been when we came, hazy as a fairy pavilion, covered in a rosy mist. Once again the flutes sounded melodiously in our ears. I suspected that the old woman must have finished, but could hardly suggest going back again to see.

Soon the pine-wood was behind us. Our boat was moving fairly fast, but there was such thick darkness all around you could tell it was very late. As they discussed the players, laughing and swearing, the rowers pulled harder on the oars. Now the plash of water against our bow was even more distinct. The ferry-boat seemed like a great white fish carrying a freight of children through the foam. Some old fishermen who fished all night stopped their punts to cheer at the sight.

We were still about one li from Pingqiao when our boat slowed down, the oarsmen saying that they were tired after rowing so hard, with nothing to eat for hours. It was Guisheng who had a bright idea this time. He said the broad beans were just ripe, and there was fuel on the boat"we could filch some beans and cook them. Everybody approving, we promptly drew alongside the bank and stopped. The pitch-black fields were filled with plump broad beans.

Hey, Afa! They're your family's over here, and Old Liu Yi's over there. Which shall we take? Shuangxi, the first to leap ash.o.r.e, called from the bank.

As we all jumped ash.o.r.e too Afa said, Wait a bit and I'll have a look. He walked up and down feeling the beans, then straightened up to say, Take ours, they're much bigger. With a shout we scattered through his family's bean field, each picking a big handful of beans and throwing them into the boat. Shuangxi thought that if we took any more and Afa's mother found out, she would make a scene, so we all went to Old Liu Yi's field to pick another handful each.

Then a few of the older boys started rowing slowly again, while others lit a fire in the stern and the younger boys and I sh.e.l.led the beans. Soon they were cooked, and we let the boat drift while we gather round and ate them with our fingers. When the beans were finished we went on again, washing the pot and throwing the pods into the river, to destroy all traces. What worried Shuangxi now was that we had used the salt and firewood on Eighth Granduncle's boat, and being a canny old man he was sure to find out and berate us. But after some discussion we decided that we had nothing to fear. If he swore at us, we would ask him to return the tallow branch he had taken the previous year from the river bank, and to his face call him Old Scabby.

We're all back! How could anything go wrong? Didn't I guarantee that? Shuangxi's voice suddenly rang out from the bow.

Looking past him, I saw we were already at Pingqiao and someone was standing at the foot of the bridge"it was my mother to whom Shuangxi had called. As I walked up to the bow the boat pa.s.sed under the bridge, then stopped, and we all went ash.o.r.e. Mother was rather angry. She asked why we had come back so late"it was after midnight. But she was pleased to see us too and smilingly invited everyone to go and have some puffed rice.

They told her we had all had a snack to eat and were sleepy, so we had better get to bed at once, and off we all went to our different homes.

I did not get up till noon the next day, and there was no word of any trouble with Eighth Granduncle over the salt or firewood. That afternoon we went to catch prawns as usual.

Shuangxi, you little devils stole my beans yesterday! And instead of picking them properly you trampled down quite a few. I looked up and saw Old Liu Yi on a punt, coming back from selling beans. There was still a heap of left-over beans at the bottom of the punt.

Yes, we were treating a visitor. We didn't mean to take yours to begin with, said Shuangxi. Look! You've frightened away my prawn!

When the old man saw me, he stopped punting and chuckled, Treating a visitor? So you should. Then he asked me, Was yesterday's opera good, Brother Xun?